


You Put Your Arms Around Me and I'm Home

by Lady_Cleo



Category: Major Crimes (TV)
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, Mama Raydor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Cleo/pseuds/Lady_Cleo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rusty and Sharon's goodbye. contains spoilers for "Return to Sender: Part 1"</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Put Your Arms Around Me and I'm Home

**Author's Note:**

> title from Christina Perri's "Arms"

"I screwed up and I almost got myself killed and..." _I almost got_ _you_ _killed... I almost lost you._ He can't bring himself to voice these thoughts, because just thinking them is enough. Speaking them out loud seems like tempting fate, asking back the demon you just got rid of to see if he'd like to take another crack at you.

He stands, jerkily and fast, like he's been launched by a spring loaded seat, and he knows he just needs to get closer to her. Then she stands and he finds his way into her arms. It's the safest place in the world to him, and even more of a home than the condo they share. He doesn't let himself in here very often, usually content to live in the "home" they occupy together, but now he needs the reassurance that he still has a place _here_ with her- in her arms, in her life, in her heart.

He turns for a moment, disappearing into the curtain of her hair, absorbing the smell of her shampoo and placing a tiny kiss on her ear as he blocks out the rest of the world. He finally emerges from hiding, to state the utterly obvious thing he needs to get out. "You saved me... again.

From now on... whatever it takes, whatever you want me to do, I'll do it." He wants to stay safe for her, he wants to let her love him, he wants to feel worthy of it... and he's kicking himself that it took such a scare for him to be ready to admit how much he... wait.

Sharon is still hugging him, still holding him tight. But all too soon, she pulls back, placing her hands on his face, giving him a Sharon look, and he barely has time to decipher the first layer of emotions in that gaze before she speaks.

"I'm glad to hear you say that. And I'm glad you're willing to do whatever it takes to keep you safe. Come on."

The faint hiss of brakes being released hits his ears as he processes her exit. She's walking down the hall, toward his room, and the world that was so safely grounded a moment ago has begun to slide a bit.

The feeling picks up momentum- like a rollercoaster climbing that first long agonizing hill or a tilt-a-whirl making its first tilt- as he watches her pull the suitcase she'd given him down from the shelf in his closet. She'd gotten it on advice of a social worker who had taken in kids of her own from time to time. Foster kids and anyone processed in the system more than once got used to moving, but rarely had any real way to do it. "Foster kid luggage" is usually courtesy of Hefty, and there is always a lingering smell- under the blend of different detergents and the random smells of a dozen houses- of that industrial grade plastic. Kids start to associate that smell with themselves, and it just reinforces the belief that they are disposable. Sharon couldn't bear that Rusty would ever feel like that, so she'd bought the zippered case (masculine yet still age appropriate in its bold red & black plaid) all the while, banking on the fact he'd never have to use it... at least until he was ready.

That time is not now, and it is not the most ideal circumstances either, but she makes herself put the suitcase down and select a hanging polo shirt to place inside.

"You'll be staying with Lt. Provenza until you testify." She hopes he doesn't see her hands shaking as she folds the shirt, or the hesitation that betrays how hard the idea of packing him away is for her.

Rusty is sure he's going to be sick. The sliding spin he feels his world going through is like a bad carnival ride: lots of mirrors and distorted images and sounds swirling past as he flies by out of control, hands fisted tightly to hold on, fighting the urge to scream.

" _Until_ I testify?! That could be years!" She can't be kicking him out, she can't be letting him go, she can't be breaking her promise to keep him safe because if he leaves here, he could be in Fort Knox and he wouldn't feel secure if she wasn't there with him. It's going faster and faster and faster and-

Sharon finally pins his gaze with her own, and his kaleidoscoping world slams to a stop as he sees it. She doesn't speak for a moment, but he still hears her voice loud and clear in his head, being telegraphed across the line of her gaze. _Did you really think I would_ **ever** _just let you go?_

* * *

She's finished packing and they've said their good byes and she's watched him walk to the elevator bank with a watery but determined smile. She steps back inside and leans against the door, seeking answers in the blank ceiling.

Her feet are killing her; she's not exactly young anymore, but even Rusty would've had issues running barefoot down diamond plate stairs. She needs to rest. But her bed looks too vast to deal with, the couch foreign and lonely.

She spends the night in Rusty's room, just this once. She doesn't think he'll mind.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a sort-of companion piece to "Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda." hope you like it.


End file.
